A Man Owned
by carnifax
Summary: Chapter 8: Suddenly, the prince felt his face go red with anger. He felt warm, too warm, and he only wanted to find Roy, berate him and force him out of the castle.
1. This Gift So Bestowed

**A Man Owned**

By Carnifax  
AU Teen Titans  
Garth-Roy  
Rated T  
Drama/Romance  
_His throat was too tight, too dry to answer. He could only switch his gaze to the man on the floor and wonder how many years another death would haunt his conscience._

Moonlighting? Who, me?

Really. Think of this as… a diversion for when I'm stuck on Volte-Face. It certainly won't merit the same amount of focus, time or planning, but my medieval muse is throwing a tantrum and no matter how quirky the language might have to get, some things just beg to be written. Well, it's not so much begging as using crossbows and javelins to stab its way into Word…

Oh—and I'm a fan of enslaved!Roy. What can I say?

**Edit 4/10/08 - From here on out, my beta will be the lovely Immortal Sailor Cosmos! (Why? Well... because I'm physically unable to write in proper English? Is that a good reason?)**

* * *

Enormous wooden doors, worn with use and age, crashed unceremoniously against the marble pillars as the dark-haired prince shoved through them. "Mother, I utterly _refuse_ to meet with Deverell! How is it that you cannot simply tell him that I am away on business, or planning an addition to the northeast wing, or meeting with a courtier or _something_?"

The Queen turned on her stool, ignoring the protests of her maids who, until that point, had been curling her hair into a tower of ripples. "Garth," she sighed, closing her eyes. "You fear Deverell as if he is some horrid monstrosity. He's just a boy—your cousin, in fact—and, if anything, you should appreciate his return. He bears gifts whenever he comes, don't you remember?"

The prince stepped closer, hands clenched within the silken violet gloves. "Of course I remember. I also remember that his gifts are as worthless and insulting as a crude peasant's tongue." He smirked. "I'd prefer him to be a horrid monstrosity, if you can believe it—the worst he could be is a squid. I'd prefer a stubborn ball of tentacles to Deverell any day."

The Queen sighed once more and then stood, swatting the maids' hands from her head. "He's important to your father and me both. Neither of us can meet with him today, so when he comes I expect _you_ to be there, handsome and proper as always." She caught the strangled look on her son's face. "Garth, by Poseidon, what ails y—"

"Neither of you are meeting him? That's… that's not fair!"

"Garth, be reasonable. You sound like a child—"

"I will not be reasonable!" he hissed, turning toward the door. "As of now, I'm officially meeting with the architectural branch to expand the northeast wing of the castle. The gods know that hall needs more space, and—"

"Garth!" The Queen's voice was shrill and loud in the spacious chambers. Her maids froze where they stood, eyes darting between the two royals. "You _will_ meet with Deverell!"

"But mother—"

"_No_. You will show him courtesy as is befitting for one his relation and status." Her eyes were slivers when he finally faced her. "Do you understand?"

"He will—"

"You are not away on business," she continued. "You are not planning any elaborate building project. You are not—and this is by far the most ludicrous idea!—meeting with courtiers! You've shunned all the girls we've brought in for you thus far with your picky critiques of their personalities! It's more likely that Deverell has changed in the past two years than it is for him to be fool enough to believe a sad excuse such as that!"

Garth could only stare at her. There was no excuse against her, and yet he _couldn't_ face Deverell. Not after their previous visit…

"Excuse me, Your Highness," a petite, elderly maid called as she hobbled into the room. If she noticed the awkwardness in the air, she ignored it; as a worker in the castle for over six decades, Zetta wasn't one to stick her nose into family matters. "If you don't allow for the girls to finish your hair in the next few minutes, I'll have to take tonight's dinner out of your schedule. You still have your gown, coat and jewels to put on—these things take time, madam!"

The Queen, keeping her gaze solidly fixed upon the prince, nodded. "Thank you, Zetta. Please take Garth to ready himself for Deverell's arrival. Be sure to tell Coulson to arrange for a large dining party as well; Deverell's group mustn't go hungry."

xXx

"That woman is out of her mind!" Garth shouted just before he collapsed into the feather-stuffed chaise of his bedroom. He leaned his head back, staring up at the ornate ceiling. "She thinks she can order me to see Deverell—well, just watch, he's going to arrive with his fiancée and minions in tow and _I won't be there_!"

"Actually, seeing as she's the Queen," laughed one of the four maids around him, "she can order you to do anything, least of those things being to meet with your cousin."

Garth glared at her for a moment, lips set into a scowl until Novia grinned and tossed him a clean shirt. She flitted back to the dressing table as Jette and Isolde pulled him off the chaise, twisting him this way and that until his jacket came off.

"I really can get dressed by myself," Garth argued, moving to unbutton his shirt when Jette's quick hands slapped his away.

"You tried that last year at the summer banquet, if I remember correctly," Novia muttered from across the room. "And you wound up wearing orange and green."

"Why do you even _own_ something orange?" Isolde giggled. "Those tassels made you look like a diseased jellyfish. Why in the world—"

"I understand!" Garth interrupted, shaking his head in amusement. "I made a small mistake last time, but—"

"You're forgetting the year before, with the salmon-colored… what would you call that thing? A shawl?"

"I'd call it more of a robe…"

"And I'd call it ugly!"

The three girls erupted in laughter, forcing Garth to look for a bit of assistance. "Quintonice, do you think I could possibly dress myself?"

The quiet brunette thought for a moment before her large hazel eyes caught his gaze with assurance. "I believe the prince could dress himself very well," she murmured, "if he wished to look like a jester for the empire."

The others burst into fits of hysterics again; Quintonice smiled softly and shook her head, returning to Garth's sleeves without another word.

xXx

The procession had begun. From over the nearest hill, stretching back to the pastel-painted horizon, came the carriages, each led by a six-horse team. All the horses were black with dappled white speckles across their hindquarters and they all had white bells around the base of their hooves, clinking and ringing in harmony.

Garth wondered how many people Deverell intended to insult. The noise had started nearly an hour ago and, judging by the stream of coaches still rising over the sunset, wouldn't fully cease for another hour, perhaps nearly two.

"Ostentatious," he whispered against the cheery clangs. The first carriage, fully adorned with flags and gold accents, was nearing the castle's first gate.

"You have one minute to finish getting ready," Novia called in what had to be nearly a scream, and yet it seemed like only a murmur over the noise of the stagecoaches. "His Highness' entourage will be waiting in the dining room as you descend the main staircase, but His Highness himself requests to see you in a personal meeting beforehand. Does that bid well with you?"

"Do I have a choice?" the Prince chuckled.

The only one near enough to hear was Quintonice; she was giving last-minute fixes to the hem of his cloak. She smiled at the remark but hid her face, flushing, when Garth looked at her.

"Your Highness?"

Garth stepped away from Quintonice and turned to Novia with a nod. "If this evening's mockery is shorter than his previous amusements, perhaps Deverell will be finished with me before dawn breaks."

The clacking and ringing only escalated with each step toward the stone-walled carriage foyer. By the time Garth could smell the horses, his head was pounding too loudly—or was it his nervous pulse?—to even discern what was happening. It was only when Coulson, the head butler in charge of meals and seating, yanked his sleeve that he realized he'd almost passed the entrance to the study where his cousin was waiting.

Coulson paused outside the door, turning to Garth. Without a word, the man brushed away mud and hay clinging to the Prince's clothes, giving him once-overs after every pat.

"Coulson," Garth muttered. "Please. Deverell's to insult me no matter how I look. I could very well come nude and—"

"_Your Highness_!"

"—he'd still act just the same as he will now." He put a gloved hand on the elder's shoulder, smiled, and raised a brow.

Coulson let out a hoarse sigh. "Very well. Proceed."

"Good man," Garth whispered, reaching for the door.

The moment the wooden portal creaked open, Garth could smell the sickeningly sweet rot of tobacco in the air. He tried not to wince and instead focused on the familiar, angular-looking man seated by the fireplace.

"Deverell," Garth nodded.

"And you," the dark-haired man grinned back, extending a wiry hand as he hissed out each syllable. "My dearest cousin, Garth, Prince of Atlantis."

"Pleasure to see you," the prince answered, shaking his hand. He knew all too well that, once the cordial greetings had been exchanged and the menservants excused, the wickedness would begin to show.

"And where might the lovely Theodosia be?"

Deverell's narrowed eyes watched as Garth sat adjacent to him; his lips were set in a deceptive smile, a long cigarette hanging elegantly from between two fingers. "I'm afraid Dosi has come down with a headache from the bells they so foolishly forced onto the horses' hooves. The head maid is taking her to our quarters—Zetta, was it? Proper woman, she is, with manners but still a business attitude. Yes; if our maid were such as that…"

"Zetta does well," Garth agreed. "But enough talk of maids—you've proposed to Theodosia, I've heard. My parents told me she was a charming young woman, a pearl like few others with the face of an angel. Is she truly such a girl?"

"A girl indeed, naïve and dainty as a rain-spotted lily." Deverell sighed, eyes roaming to a time far away. "I care not for looks, pearls or charms, and yet she is ideal. Oh," he said suddenly, twisting in his seat to face the line of servants waiting obediently. "Please make yourselves useful with the carriages. Dosi's trunks are mixed with mine in the second carriage; if you would, send both sets to our chambers, as well as Dosi's maidens. They'll be on the fourth carriage."

The servants' turned their eyes to Garth for approval. Some were of Deverell's castle, but they knew in which home they stood.

Garth hesitated to give consent. "But dear cousin," he asked, turning Deverell's smug face back toward him, "you never directed a location for the contents of the third carriage."

Looking as if Garth had just made him king, the man smiled. "Of course," he laughed. "Take the third carriage to the entrance of this room. Once there, be sure Keir is the one to unload my adored cousin's gift. Once that has been emptied, you are free to send the other gifts to the King and Queen's private reception hall."

To his own family's servants, Garth added, "Zetta and Coulson will likely wish to take the gifts. Seek them out while Keir unloads… what gifts he must unload."

The servants nodded and rocked on their feet, unsure whether to move. "Be quick, and avoid startling the horses," Garth said, waving his hand once. Before either royal could blink, the men were gone, the door shut.

"You're looking just as horrible as when I last saw you," Deverell laughed, his speech abruptly coarse. "One would think that a man would change in two years but, as you must see every morning in the mirror, you have not. Does that drunken soul still break through your filthy skin every time you see a handsome man?"

"Does your spiked tongue pierce any others' hearts, or is it solely me to which it owes the pleasure?"

"My tongue pierces only hearts that exist; I must grieve in the fact that a heart for any but a woman is no heart at all." Deverell flicked the end of his cigarette, smirking as ashes marred the velvet of the chair.

"But cousin!" Garth smiled back. "A heart for one so vulgar and lewd as your beloved Theodosia—certainly you cannot consider one such as _her_ to be even remotely a woman! And you claim that thing in your chest a heart—hah!"

"If not a heart for a woman, at least not a heart for a man," Deverell answered. "Have your perversions continued since that day two years before this very season?"

"Perversions, I assure you, only come to me when some such as a dear relative coerces me into imbibing far too many spirits. If not for your taste when it comes to insulting a man, no so-called perversions would even have occurred!"

"And yet here you are, cousin, of a ripe marrying age, and yet you have no desire to wed, no desire to produce heirs—no desires, in fact, at all!" Deverell stood, taking slow steps toward the wooden door. "You've not even to touch your dressing maids! It astounds me—what did you assume the maids were there for? Dressing? I think not! As soon as a man marries, he is to be rid of other women in his bedroom. But before he gets married, before he becomes chained to a single female, he is alone with those women—you have four, do you not?—day, after day, after day. It would be ludicrous to think a grown man could even resist the charms of young women!"

"Your sadistic desires have made you insane," Garth snarled, jumping to his feet. "If my parents intended for me to—"

"They _did_ intend for you to toy with the girls," Deverell interrupted darkly. "If they are to remain untouched, why are they all young, beautiful and well-groomed?"

"You've gone insane—"

"Have I?" He shrugged, opening the door to the staircase. He looked down the hall and beckoned to someone within.

"Before my hunger forces me down to the banquet, I have a gift to present to you," Deverell smiled. "I hope it will be… _of use_."

Deverell looked back into the passageway and, after a moment of consideration, joined Garth on the far side of the room.

"What monstrosity did you bring?" Garth hissed, tense as yelling and scraping met his ears. The crack of a whip against hide made him swallow; the same noise brought a quiet laugh from Deverell. The racket got louder until Garth could specifically hear the orders of Keir, Deverell's personal assistant.

Keir led the way into the room, a mass of chains in his hands. It took two black-clad servants—part of Deverell's personal entourage—to aid him in yanking whatever beast it was up the steps.

But then it tripped into the room. Garth saw an arm, a leg, and when the entire defiant figure of a man landed on the wood floor before him, he found himself unable to breathe.

"Well, cousin?" Deverell's voice only barely registered. "Are you—"

"What have you done?" Garth shouted, spinning on his relative, eyes wide and furious. "Treating a human with such disdain—Are you aware of the consequences for such a deed in our kingdom? Your head will rest—"

"On my neck and shoulders, firmly as it has for the previous nineteen years," Deverell cut in. "If you had allowed me to explain my darling gift, I could've assured you that this fate of his should have gone horribly askew. He was a criminal, a man given to the executioner unless someone would bid enough of a sum to save his neck from the gallows. I, in need of an insult worthy of one such as yourself, had groups bid so much money that the executioner couldn't say no."

Now Garth's breath couldn't slow. He stood absolutely still, silent with shock of the man's audacity. "Deverell—"

"If you don't want him," Deverell continued, "you aren't required to take him. You have other gifts—true gifts—waiting amongst your parents'. And yet," he said slowly, tone turning smooth and solemn, "by turning down such a gift, the man will simply go back to the gallows. I can understand your need to give him back… but surely, Garth, you don't want another murder staining your royal hands?"

His throat was too tight, too dry to answer. He could only switch his gaze to the man on the floor, staring at him through insolent green eyes, and wonder how many years another death would haunt his conscience.

The answer that finally formed was resolute; Garth met Deverell's eye and, with a curt nod, spoke.

"I thank you, Deverell, for this gift so bestowed. I accept it with the utmost honor."

* * *

If you read their 'tongues and hearts' argument aloud—especially with a British accent—you'll likely find it oddly fun. Huh.

And now… I'd like to make a point of something. This is in an alternate universe, and this particular AU is 99.9 percent made-up, including the characters. Besides Garth, Roy, or any random TT-character I decide to throw in later, the people are original. Get over it. In my opinion, sticking in 'Starfire the hot servant girl' or 'Robin the carpenter's assistant' kind of ruins the whole mood of things…

Feel free to argue…

Or review…

_(oozes love)_


	2. Not A Savior

**A Man Owned**

Blame the delay on _Trigger_. If only Susan Vaught hadn't written it so well, I wouldn't have had to read it…

Thank you…  
**ferretgirl-1124**- Don't drool over Roy yet... at least let him take a bath first. And _you_ should update, too, missy.  
**Xment2bursX**- Ooh! You should write yours! Then we could see how each one ends up playing out! They wouldn't be the same, after all-- you'd think up things that I'd never imagine, and... yeah! You should totally do it!  
**StormDancer  
DL**- I aim to please. (grin)

If you get confused about who's who, simply get to my slimmed-down profile. The characters are on there—I also have pronunciations if you want them. I don't care how you're pronouncing people's names, really…

My newest addiction is House fanfictions. Coupling that fact with the whole of House's cynicisms, the next chapter (with Deverell) may end up different than I expected. But that's okay.

* * *

As the last of the black-clad servants shuffled from the room, Deverell gave a final twisted smile and hurried daintily through the doors to dinner. Garth couldn't find the will to follow; he collapsed against the back of a chaise, head turned toward the fireplace, unable to look at the gift of mockery his cousin had left for him.

As a prince, it was his duty to enforce and abide by the law. So what was he doing, allowing the illegal trade of a human being—and allowing for bribes to excuse a man from execution? Servants were one thing, but a man unwillingly taken into custody as a prize—as, if used as Deverell intended, a sex object?

It was only after his pulse slowed to a normal rate that Garth noticed the labored breathing of the man behind him. He turned on impulse, hesitant and yet curious to see what he looked like.

Once more, the first thing Garth could take in was his eyes, a startlingly vivid green against the brown and grey grit covering his skin. They weren't focused on the prince—on anything, really—but they were open and roving, like an animal desperate for escape.

The man's skin was dark with dirt and dried—though in some cases, wet—blood, yet it was obvious that his actual skin was a much tanner shade than any of the royals. His chin, shadowed in unshaven bristles, was strong and square. His clothes were loose, simple and covering, but what skin Garth could see was taught with the muscles of a life hard-lived.

Garth narrowed his eyes, perplexed by the man's behavior. His blinking was slowed, lethargic, and he was shivering despite the warmth of the fire. He must've been cold, for his arms were wrapped around his chest, covering—

"By the Gods," Garth choked out, "you're bleeding!"

The man jerked his gaze to Garth's, green eyes livid. His lips parted to speak but nothing came out; instead, he winced, moving to stand with difficulty.

Garth was beside him in an instant. "Let me see." He pulled the man's hand from where it held his side, revealing the deep slash only a whip could've made. Not even a usual whip—one with adornments: spikes, hooks… He reached to hold the fabric away from it when the hand in his slipped away and a hardened fist slammed into the side of his face.

The pain of the impact faded after a moment, leaving his jaw numb. "You need help," Garth murmured, opening and closing his mouth; every movement made a cracking noise. "Let me—"

The man shook his head, breath still coming short. A sudden gagging came from the back of his throat and Garth drew in a breath, eyes closing as the heaving sound of liquid on flagstone reverberated through the room.

"Please," the prince hissed, looking at the hunched man again. "At this degree of injury, you will—"

Before he could even get the words out, the man's eyelids fluttered. It was all Garth could do to stop his head from careening into the stone.

—

The expression Quintonice wore was one of shock when Garth carried the man through the door over one shoulder, and then carefully set him on the floor in the receiving chambers of the prince's main living area. Coulson followed in a few moments later, warm, damp cloths in his arms and panic across his features.

"Your Highness?" Quintonice asked in a barely-audible gasp. She stepped away from the pile of folded sheets, only coming as close as she dared.

"Give me those," Garth growled, grabbing the stack of cloths from Coulson. He set them on the flagstone and, ripping a hole in the bloodied man's shirt, held one against the laceration. "Fetch an aid, one of you!"

Coulson opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by a violet-eyed glare. He was out the door in an instant. Quintonice crept closer, trying to look at the mysterious man.

"Quintonice," Garth said, gesturing with one hand toward the cloths, "wrap his left ankle. I believe he twisted it, so be gentle."

She nodded and did as he said, trying to apply as little pressure on the ankle as possible. As she began wrapping a second towel around it, her eyes roamed to Garth and caught the blood across his shirt. A patch of brown covered an entire side of his shoulders, some on his neck and chin, some on his arm.

"Are you injured, Your Highness?"

Garth jerked to look at her, his eyes following hers. "No," he said after a moment, reaching for a new cloth. "It's his blood. Is that swollen?"

She stared at him for a moment. "Oh! The ankle—yes. It—"

"Your Highness," a new voice called as another man swirled in through the door, his tall, black hat already thrown onto the floor. "The dinner party is expecting you. They wish to hold a toast for you—but Gods, who is that?"

"Emlyn," Garth barked, bringing the doctor closer to him, "check his ankle. Quintonice, go to the kitchens and request a bag of ice."

"His ankle seems to be the least of the problems," Emlyn murmured. He kneeled across from Garth, batting his hands from the cuts. "By Poseidon, Your Highness. Where did you find such a horribly-wounded ruffian?"

"I'd rather not explain." Garth got to his feet, shifting toward the door to look for Coulson. "Will he—"

"This man—well, he's more a boy—will be waking soon. You sent your maid to fetch ice?"

"Yes, she—ah, she's coming now, down the hall." Garth came back into the room, picking at his bloody coat. "Will you need alcohol for the cuts, or will—"

A sudden intake of breath made both men freeze. The man on the floor coughed, abruptly awake and mobile. He put his unharmed foot flat on the flagstone and grabbed at Emlyn's hand, trying to rid himself of it.

"Your Highness," Quintonice said as she appeared in the doorway. In that half-second moment of distraction, the man sat up; his head cracked against Emlyn's and a hoarse series of oaths echoed through the air.

"Emlyn, watch—!"

The man was on his feet, bad ankle favored as he stumbled backward. Garth took a step to one side, subconsciously moving in front of Quintonice. The maid herself merely clutched the pack of ice and tried to be still.

He coughed again but didn't speak; his hands still covered the slash in his side. The bright green of his eyes met Garth's again.

"You're bleeding," Garth said slowly. "You twisted your ankle as well; we have to help you."

The man shifted his weight, limping a distance to the side. He caught himself on the edge of a table, eyes narrowed, teeth sunken into his bottom lip in either pain or frustration.

"Emlyn, please return to the dinner," the prince suddenly said. "Alcohol and salve will be fine for his cuts."

The doctor hesitated, but after a moment murmured a quiet, "Yes, Your Highness," and retreated from the room. Quintonice made a move to follow, but Garth called her back.

"Quintonice, set the ice there"—he pointed to a random end table—"and draw a bath, quickly."

The girl rushed toward the inner chambers of the wing, leaving the two alone. Garth kept his eyes locked with the man's but came closer, slowly. "Will you tell me your name?" he asked gently. "I wish to address you properly, instead of just 'you, there.'"

The man didn't move.

"I'm the Prince of Atlantis—my name is Garth, as I'm sure my cousin has told you. You are…?" After a moment, Garth let out an exasperated sigh and tugged on a stray string from his jacket. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice, lower than his own and hoarser, spoke first.

"Why didn't you say no?"

The prince started, head jolting up. "I… what?"

The corner of the man's lip twitched in pain. "You're fucking _royalty_. If anyone should ignore my life, it should be you, and he, and everyone else in this damn palace. Why didn't you decline his offer?" He smirked, remembering. "Oh, that's right, you killed someone else, and because you're a self-righteous man who was never taught to ignore guilt, you think killing some soul—even if he _is_ fully culpable—is, as mommy told you, 'wrong.'"

As the prince tried to regain his sense and perhaps close his gaping jaw, the man scrutinized him. "If you're the prince, I pity the citizens."

"Why," Garth started, forcing himself from stuttering, "are you acting so hostile? I saved your life—"

"No, you simply prolonged it. I know your type of man. You think I'll benefit from being helped, from being washed and clothed, from being given a good meal and then, naturally, from being turned into the streets and flushed to the depths of society again. You think I won't be caught, that I won't be hanged. You must think you're so clever, so kind, to help a criminal." The man let out a jarringly harsh laugh. "You aren't. You're a cruel man who merely delayed my death and increased my suffering, and all because your guilty conscience told you that this was an opportunity for penitence. Do you feel like a savior now?"

Garth had moved across the room to the linen closet while the man had been arguing; now he turned to face the angry redhead, towels in his arms, a serenely oblivious look forced across his face. "I'm not a savior," he said slowly, approaching the man. "I never want to be. Decency and morals made me agree to keep you here. I will be sure you're washed, clothed and fed, but after that the decision is yours. If you so desperately need your life to end, you're free to leave. But I'm offering you the chance to stay here, under the protection of the crown, for as long as you need or want."

"You don't know what I've done," the man growled. "I could very well kill you."

"That's very true. Executioners generally have a reason for killing criminals, and if you're to be hanged I'd expect you did something to deserve it."

"And yet—"

"And yet," Garth continued, holding the towels out to him, "I could kill you as well. _You_ don't know what _I_ have done; you merely know that someone's murder lay on my shoulders, a fact that was, before this evening, known to only three people."

"So we're both men damned to Hell," came the bitter response. "That's no reason for you to trust me, or even care about me."

"The way I see it, you don't know my past and I don't know your past. I won't inquire of yours, and you won't inquire of mine. If we both keep our wits about us, there's no danger of one harming the other." He shook the towel, drawing the man's attention to it. "Now, if you'll tell me your name, you can bathe and I can attend the banquet. Quintonice will sort out clothes and, when I return, we can fix your wounds and give you a meal."

The man hesitated, but finally took the towel with chagrin. "Call me Roy. Garth, you said… would your banquet happen to have pears?"

Garth laughed, turning to the hall. "We'll see."

* * *

Ah, pears. Pears are key. Pears will be used in more ways than should be possible.

And _finally_, I can call him "Roy" instead of "the man." I hate vague identities.


	3. Open Wounds

**A Man Owned**

I drew out Garth's wing of the castle. It's pretty damn awesome, I'm not gonna lie. If I can find a scanner, I'll show you guys…

Thank you…  
**BipolarPenguins**- You're a freak. xD Oh, oops, I guess you don't have dibs...  
**Xment2bursX  
Smellerbee  
Foxyperv**- Keep reading; I included the 'hearts and tongues' thing for you.  
**kill the flamers  
Dancing through the Storm  
shy7cat  
The-New-Nightingale**

This fic is dedicated to Xment2bursX—go read "Of Age," because I said so, _and_ because it's fantasterrific. She is _so_ my UK buddy, whom I recently IMed and probably freaked out. (Whoops. Sorry! xD)

I've posted three things in the past day, egads. Something is wrong with me…!

Now, everyone who understood the 'hearts and tongues' conversation from chapter one, please skip down to the break line. This is just the "translation" of it, in _regular_ English, for anyone who didn't get it.

We're gonna start at "You're looking just as horrible as when I last saw you," part, which is Deverell's line. I'll use the same paragraphs, so if you're comparing side-by-side… This is it:

**Dev:** "You look like shit—you haven't changed at all! Does that drunken side of you still resurface every time you see a handsome man?"  
**Garth:** "Do you insult anyone else like this, or do you save all your insults for me?"  
**Dev:** "I only insult people who have real hearts. Unfortunately, anyone who doesn't love a woman doesn't have a heart."  
**Garth:** "But cousin! You love Theodosia—certainly you can't say _she's_ a woman! _((Theodosia's an ugly thing…))_ And you say you have a heart—hah!"  
**Dev:** "Even if someone doesn't love a woman, at least they don't love a _man_! Do you still do the things you did two years ago?"  
**Garth:** "The things I did, I assure you, I only did because you made me completely drunk! If you hadn't kept feeding me drinks, no such 'things' would've happened!"  
**Dev:** "And yet here you are without a wife, or even the desire to get married!" _((And then they talk about the dressing maids, which I'm sure you all understood perfectly.))_

Sorry for wasting space! Here's the chapter:

* * *

Water sloshed across the flagstone in liquid diamonds, dropping from Roy's body as he stepped out of the massive jade tub. He reached for a towel only to stop and once again marvel at how clean his arm was—how clean his whole body was. He'd scrubbed himself until he glimmered and now he felt truly _clean_, and even if it hurt and turned the bathwater to mud, the feeling was new and wonderful.

Except, of course, for the burning cuts that covered his torso. The vague fog of pain he'd felt before wasn't pleasant, but now that he'd immersed the slices in near-scalding water his skin had gone numb with pain.

Roy let out a small noise of annoyance; among the stacks and cupboards of cloth were towels and handkerchiefs and washcloths and every size apron imaginable, and yet the linen cabinet held nothing useful—no clothes. He dried himself off regardless, leaving his hair messy when he wrapped a dry towel around his hips. Once it was secure, and once his cuts stopped aching enough for him to walk, he left the bathroom in search of the prince.

He found three bedrooms, another bathroom, a dining room and a sitting area, but no people. Roy wasn't even in the same wing anymore—somehow, he'd managed to get into a hallway with oak floors instead of stone which had crested standing torches that designated intersections.

Suddenly, he rounded a corner and a wave of sound and smells hit him. He could hear a chorus of voices laughing and talking in bright conversation, silverware clinking and chiming in the background. And the smell—oh, _god_, it was a potpourri of gravy and meat and vegetables, and sauce and apples and thyme, rosemary, mint, basil… For a moment, his wounds and location were forgotten and he closed his eyes, breathing in the feast of aromas.

Roy started toward what had to be the banquet the prince had mentioned. The prince had said that Roy would be able to eat eventually, but only after clothes and bandages… Would it really be so bad if Roy just stopped in to grab a tiny bit of meat or bread?

Roy had no time to even consider the options. Within a few paces of the banquet hall, the heavy door opened of its own accord and the prince himself stepped out, eyes set on the ground and fingers idly ripping off his gloves. His eyes caught on the bare feet and suddenly he was still.

"Oh," was all he said. Roy was silent; he could see the prince's violet gaze moving down his body, taking in the scores of markings, brands and even his newest addition, the whip's cuts. "Did Quintonice send you down here?"

Roy shook his head, biting the inside of his lip. He jerked back when the prince extended his arm.

"You wanted a pear, didn't you?" the prince asked, just as Roy realized that a smooth, green fruit was in his palm. He took it eagerly, maybe too eagerly; the prince was eyeing him again, this time in amusement.

"Quintonice would never send you out without clothes anyway," the prince said, probably to himself, and then began walking the way Roy had first come. "This way."

—

Roy had already finished the pear by the time they reached the prince's room again. It wasn't a long walk; it seemed to take much shorter a time returning now that he was being led by a resident of the place. But as soon as they reached the door into the main chambers, a flustered brunette burst through the doorway, apron askew and cheeks flushed.

"Your Highness!" she blurted. "That man, he—oh! Oh, he's here, with you! I'm sorry!" She bowed her head, reddening further. "I thought… I thought he had—"

"It's all right, Quintonice," the prince said gently. "But have you found him some clothes?"

With her eyes still averted, she answered after a moment. "None that will fit him well, Your Highness, but some things of yours will do for now. His clothes are on the bed and your shirt, the one with blood on it, is being taken care of."

The prince smiled and nodded. "Thank you. Please find Coulson and ask him to bring food, and then you may see to Zetta for whatever she wants you to do."

Quintonice turned to hurry down the hall; the prince went into his chambers. Roy followed neither, hesitating to give the poor, nervous girl a command.

"Quintonice?" Roy said quietly, half-wishing she wouldn't hear. But she did; she stopped with a short gasp and turned, trying not to meet Roy's eyes.

"Yes?"

"What _are_ you doing?" the prince said, abruptly pulling on his elbow. "She's—"

"Could you have Coul… Coul-whoever to bring more pears with the food?"

Quintonice shifted her weight from one foot to the other and swallowed. "Your Highness?"

"It's fine—it's just pears," he laughed in response. "You may as well tell Coulson to find out where we have the rest of our pears, seeing as he'll eat through those next."

"Yes, Your Highness," she said, smiling slightly as his laughter.

Roy followed the prince into his main chamber this time, but he threw a glance over his shoulder at the girl. She was pursing her lips in an attempt to suppress a grin; her eyes no longer held distress, and instead the edges around them were crinkled with satisfied delight.

A yank on his arm made Roy remember what he was supposed to be doing, but when the prince pushed him back onto the bed, he was confused again. "What are you—"

"I'm tending to your wounds," he answered curtly, pressing Roy's shoulder into the mattress. "Stay still; this will probably sting."

He procured a jar from his coat pocket—he had changed for the banquet—and, dipping two fingers into it, smeared the salve across one of the more major cuts. Roy's breath caught and he bit the inside of his lip again—the numbness from the shower had faded and the twinge of pain came unexpectedly.

The prince had apparently seen the flinch and stopped immediately, taking his hand away from the cut. "That hurt," he stated; it wasn't a question. "I'm sorry."

Roy shook his head. "Just surprised me. Continue."

"Are you sure?"

This time Roy nodded, cracking an eye open. The prince looked sincerely concerned, and it was making Roy uncomfortable. After living alone for so long, where a man drinking beer next to you might be a paid assassin, or the woman you slept with might slip arsenic into your morning tea, caring and loyalty seemed so naïve and idealistic.

"Tell me if it's too much," the prince sighed, and dipped his fingers into the salve again.

Roy hummed his acknowledgement. "You're not around pain much," he said after a moment, "are you?"

The prince paused, meeting the ruffian's gaze. "Why do you ask?" he murmured, returning to his task.

"You seemed appalled by my various…" He gestured to his scars. "…decorations. And you obviously think a tiny discomfort might kill me. Why is that?"

"Isn't it human to avoid pain as much as possible?" The prince shrugged, brushing hair out of his face with his wrist. "I may not understand the place you've come from, but I'm sure the people there are just as willing to avoid being hurt." He put the lid back on the jar, surveying his work. "You'll need to stand up for me to do your back."

Roy sat up but didn't stand. "Is that why you had to save me? So I would avoid being hurt?"

The prince raised a manicured brow.

"Or did you only save me so that you yourself wouldn't be _emotionally_ hurt?" He leaned forward, challenging the royal with his eyes. "Who would _you_, a prince who fears pain, murder?"

He didn't answer. The violet of his eyes seemed to darken and the corner of his mouth twitched downward. As much as Roy knew it was wrong to bait him, some part of him wanted the prince to wake up and see the world as it was—vindictive, relentless and hostile.

"Am I disobeying the rule that said 'no prying,' Garth?" His tone was becoming deviously sweet. "Was it a bet? Was she a lover? Was…" He paused, his grin creeping into a wicked smirk. "Was _he_ a lover?"

"Does your ankle hurt?" Garth suddenly said. As soon as the red-haired man shook his head, Garth kicked the hard heel of his boot against the newly-formed bruise on Roy's foot. While Roy howled oaths, the prince smiled courteously. "Does it hurt _now_?"

* * *

Now, aside from evil princey-poo (oh, you _know_ you love him!), this chapter was rather short. Next chapter will be amusing for three reasons: you'll find out the whole Deverell-blackmail-murder-secret thing Garth has going on, you'll get a tour of the castle (not as exciting, but still fun) _and_ there will be some action for the fangirls! (Can you say "bedroom"?)

As a last comment, every time I see the "abuse" button on the reviews page, I feel like it's the verb, not the noun. I want to click it and have something pop up, like, "Congratulations! You've abused a reviewer!"


	4. A Matching Set

**A Man Owned**

I _was_ going to call this _Beds and Chains_, but that would be a little S&M…

Thank you…  
**Jadee  
Xment2bursX**- I don't think the review got screwed up, or else the PM was screwed up too...? _(giggles)_ But bedroom _is_ the best word in the dictionary...  
**BipolarPenguins**- Shut up. Reviewers like being abused. It's a proven fact... xD  
**Foxyperv**- Indeed. Quintonice kinda has the hots for him...  
**DL**- Short is better than nothing... I mean, for chapters. Everything else should be as big as legally possible. _(pffthahaha)_

I have maps! One, actually, but I have two versions. I have a labeled map (so you kind-of understand what you're looking at) and the drawing-only map (so you can see it without the messy overtype). The drawing-only map features my way-cool (but not really) handwriting, because I _know_ you're curious (but not really) about it. The links are…

**Drawing-Only Map:**_ http (colon slash slash) img412 (dot) imageshack (dot) us (slash) img412 (slash) 5066 (slash) omgcastlefu4 (dot) gif_

**Labeled Map:**_ http (colon slash slash) img528 (dot) imageshack (dot) us (slash) img528 (slash) 2427 (slash) omgcastlelabelledkj2 (dot) gif_

Today, my lovely advertisement goes to **ferretgirl-1124**, without whose _School and Skirts_ update I probably would have died. Go read it, ya'll!

Oh. And this chapter does _not_ have the tour of the castle because it's already long enough… Sorry. (Heh.)

* * *

As true to their obsessively-curious natures, Garth's parents had already opened his gifts before he arrived, red and flustered with anger. He didn't need more aggravation, especially from Deverell, and that's just what he _had_ to do—he had to accept the other gifts his cousin had brought, no matter how appalling.

But his parents _had_ opened them, so their reactions were already in the past and unseen by the prince himself. Fortunately for him, their general reaction seemed positive. As he sorted through the gifts, he realized that many were pleasant and thoughtful.

There was a series of leather-bound books, an encyclopedia of Atlantean history. Inside the first book's cover his aunt had tucked a note, a message that hoped he would appreciate the set. Garth smiled, closed the book, and made a mental note to put one by his bedside.

Another gift was a set of fabrics to be tailored into coats and outfits. The cloth was enchantingly smooth, colored in various shades of violet. That was also probably from his aunt.

A box of soaps, perfumes, incense and oils were among boxes. In a different box sat a simple but brilliant rosary with a protective symbol dangling from strung lavender beads. He slipped it over his head without hesitation, admiring it for a moment before tucking it under his collar.

In yet another box were fine gold chains that slithered into Garth's palm, almost seeming to be one but for the two clasps. Garth put one back into the box and hooked the other around his neck; it fit loosely around his collarbone and still tight enough that it wouldn't dangle unnecessarily.

Garth looked back at the box. The other one sat alone now, meaning to be on someone but unable. Whoever had sent it—most likely Deverell himself—gave the necklaces as a pair, with the goal of one being on Garth and the other on whomever he was romantically involved with. Which, according to Deverell, would be Roy.

Garth closed the box, but there was a similarly tiny one next to it with the same design, same ribbon. Inside were three gold hoops—gold earrings. But Garth didn't have pierced ears, and nor did Roy—though, Garth considered, he didn't actually check the tattered ruffian's ears. And Deverell would've.

"Garth?" The prince jerked up, closing the box, looking at his mother. She had changed into her nightclothes and looked increasingly tired. "Garth, please, leave the gifts here for Coulson to move and go to bed. It's late, sweet. You can sort through them more in the morning."

He nodded, tucking both of the boxes into his coat pocket. "Goodnight, mother."

She nodded back and closed the door.

xXx

His room was dark when he returned, with Roy nowhere in sight. Lured to the bed by a sudden storm of fatigue, Garth slipped off his coat and shoes, put the boxes on the nightstand and yanked the warm covers over himself.

But in his dreams, he found no solace. Alcohol burned the back of his throat and his head ached, but somehow he kept himself upright. His lips were pressed awkwardly against a cold, stiff mouth, a kiss but not a kiss, really just a drunken slur from the righteous path of a prince.

A hand crept around his waist while another held his neck, pushing him against the other's body with equally drunken fervor. Then, without actually moving, they were on a bed of hay, Garth held down against the bristling softness by thick arms and a willing gaze. They had made it only as far as the next block over, just past the hayshed of the barn before both boys realized that neither could keep their clothes on long enough to get to a real bed without arriving in the nude.

The ache in his head from the spirits made Garth forget the important parts of what had been his first sexual encounter but his dreams made it up, sticking in moans and kisses when, in reality, all he could remember was the darkness, pain, pleasure despite the blood and the rush he got from playing submissive. Being a prince, no one ever commanded him to do things; the sensation of being controlled, of being forced down against hay—that's what he could remember.

And then, abruptly, there was rain and coldness and Garth was standing above a dying boy, the same boy who just days before had been crying out in ecstasy above him. The boy's expression was blank, unfocused due to the bloody gash across his neck. Blood from his jugular stained the pools of rain crimson and he gasped for breath through a broken airway.

Deverell's laugh faded into background noise, and Garth was in another place, in his own bedroom, and it was dark and a warm body lied next to him. Garth's eyes were closed; he could smell the gentle scent of soap on the other person and smiled, pressing his cheek against a smooth shoulder.

This was a new dream, he subconsciously realized. The threat and excitement of his previous locations faded and his heart eventually reached an even pace.

He liked the dark and the closeness to another person. His mind could be clever sometimes, it seemed, and give him what he wanted. Somehow, it had given him a bed and the boy who he'd killed was lying in it next to him, freshly bathed and unclothed and warm and such a comfort, despite what Deverell would think or say. In his dreams, Deverell wasn't a threat.

Garth opened his dream-eyes then, expecting to see soft features and mussed tawny hair. But the man next to him had sharp, angular features, red hair and skin the color of almonds.

It was Roy, and Garth wasn't asleep.

He let out a shout and tumbled off the bed, on his feet and across the sunny room in half a second. His limbs were shaking as he watched Roy come awake, green eyes squinting to see what the noise was.

"_Why_ are you in my bed?" Garth demanded, pulse racing. "And _why_ aren't you even remotely _dressed_?"

Roy blinked, smiled and rolled onto his stomach, his face in the pillow. After a moment he turned his head to look at Garth, still smiling. "It was so comfortable… And I _do_ have a towel on…" But then he lifted the covers to look under them and chuckled. "Oh. I guess I don't have a towel on anymore…"

Garth let out an aggravated sigh, making his way closer to the bed. Roy sat up, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders; an unsettled look crossed his face. "What're you doing?"

Garth leaned past the end of the bed to get the clothes Quintonice had set out—they had fallen to the ground overnight. "You should have put these on."

"Well, my ankle was throbbing—no thanks to you, of course—and I was tired… _You_ should've noticed that I was in your bed when you got back from who-knows-where!"

"It was dark, I was tired; put these on _now_."

xXx

_It is a mistake to keep him here…_ The phrase kept circling through Garth's head, but he knew it was a lie and he knew he would never make his 'gift' leave. He had been sitting in his bathtub for nearly an hour now and the water, previously scalding, was lukewarm; but the prince barely noticed. The heat of the bath had done nothing for his tremors.

He kept wondering if Roy really had been asleep—he had certainly acted like he was asleep, but it made no sense. No one should be able to… to _nuzzle_ against a sleeping person and _not_ wake him up.

It was all Garth could think about. Two years ago, Deverell had given him drinks, made him incoherent and forced him join the violent and crude party of middle-class adolescents. Deverell had pushed him to find a 'friend,' as he named it—a girl with whom he could spend the night, boarded up in some city hostel for a one-night stand. And it sounded like a decent plan—Garth was young, stupid, rash.

What Deverell _didn't_ do, though Garth blamed him for it, was to choose a male 'friend' instead of a female one. Deverell had had no intention of insulting the prince and yet, the next morning, when Garth came to his senses and shouted at his cousin, Deverell found the situation hilarious.

Garth automatically assumed his laughter was meant to be derisive and hated Deverell for it. Now, two years later, it seemed like a youthful misunderstanding—Deverell used to be his playmate, his favorite cousin, and the overly-frequent visits had only started because the boys couldn't stand to be without each other. Even into their teens, Deverell would drag Garth out of the castle in disguise to chase girls and wreak havoc in the city parks.

It used to be fun, and Garth had ruined it. But now Deverell hated _him_, and things couldn't be more different.

In the bath, the dark-haired prince slipped his head under the water, holding his breath. He closed his eyes in thought, taking solace in the muffled sounds of the water splashing.

There was suddenly a _clunk_ from nearby and a hand was yanking his head above the water, pulling him out of his contemplation as well. Garth coughed out water and blinked his eyes open, blindly shoving the foreign hands away.

"What…?" he wondered, managing to focus. Roy was looking down at him, anxious lines running across his brow, his lips turned down with stress. "Roy? Do you need something?"

The man took a step back, shaking the bathwater off his hands. "No," he said quietly, breathily. "I thought you were drowning…"

Garth didn't hear that—he was looking over Roy's outfit instead. The pants Quintonice laid out for him were loose and sagged to his hipbones, leaving a strip of skin bare. The shirt—also loose in places—was plain and beige, and Roy didn't quite fit the thin shoulders. He had left the top three buttons undone, revealing a neat triangle of bronzed skin.

"It fits, sort-of," the redhead commented once he followed Garth's gaze. He toyed with the sleeves, rolling up one to match the other by his elbow.

"No, it really doesn't," Garth chuckled, eyes moving once more to Roy's exposed neck. His own hand idly crept to his collarbone, fingers running along Deverell's gold chain. "Are your ears pierced?" he suddenly asked.

Roy quirked a brow. "Yes…?" he said, pushing back some hair to show his left ear. Three evenly-spaced pieces of silver ran through the arch at the top of his ear. "Well, one is. Why…?"

"Go find the boxes next to the bed. Deverell left some things for you."

When Roy left, Garth took the opportunity to finally get out of the water and dry off. By the time the redhead returned, Garth was dry, half-dressed and slipping an arm into one sleeve. The prince didn't even know Roy had come into the room until a low, astounded whistle echoed off the flagstone.

Garth turned, tucking his other arm through a sleeve. "What?"

"You're a swimmer, princey?"

He froze. "I swim a bit, I suppose…"

Roy smirked. "'A bit'? Someone who only swims 'a bit' couldn't look like his torso was carved by an artist." Before Garth could protest and become properly flushed, Roy continued: "But, hey, is this mine too?" He held up a glittering strand—the other gold chain. "It matches yours, now, doesn't it…?"

Garth began buttoning his shirt, ducking his head to hide the red tinge. "Deverell left it for you," he managed. "You should wear it."

"It looks… expensive. Real gold. The earrings are gold too…"

Garth chuckled, keeping his eyes down. "This _is_ the royal castle of Atlantis. That's probably the simplest piece of jewelry you'll find. You should see what my mother wears."

"Your mother?" Roy turned inexplicably pale. "Your… _mother_? The _queen_?"

At last, Garth looked up, just in time to see Roy sway where he stood. The prince stepped forward to steady the redhead but there was nothing he could do when Roy swatted him away. "You're _the_ prince of Atlantis!"

"I thought we went over this…"

"No—_hell!_—I'm in a _palace_, how the fuck did I get to be in a _palace_—"

"Roy," Garth said evenly, taking the necklace from him. Roy jumped back, pressed against a wall, face still contorted and stained a strange pallor.

"What're you—no, that's fucking _gold_, I can't wear—dammit—no—!"

Garth had him trapped against the wall now. The prince hesitated, but came closer despite good judgment and held both ends of the chain, one piece of the clasp in each hand. Roy took in a breath and closed his eyes, shrinking back against the stone wall, obviously expecting a hit.

But Garth merely slipped the chain behind Roy's head and, without brushing his fingers against Roy's neck, clasped the thin necklace in place. His eyes drifted to Roy's left ear; he brushed the hair away from it and saw, with a slight warmth, that the three gold hoops had replaced the silver studs.

Roy felt the hand at his ear and opened his eyes, surprised and curious.

Garth stepped back, face regaining a more stately expression. "Let's take a walk. Shall we?"

* * *

So Dev and Garthy-poo were actually soulmates… I mean playmates… _(cough)_…

In other news, I think my cat is dead. She hasn't moved from my bed in 26 hours, except to eat… and presumably (hopefully) to use the litter box…

I also get to see _Avenue Q_, which makes me ridiculously happy. (_I wish you could meet my girlfriend! But you can't because she is in Canadaaa…_) I'm already a Rod fan—and it's kind-of ironic, because John Tartaglia (Rod/Princeton) is actually living with Michael Shawn Lewis (Raoul from The Phantom of the Opera)… No men on Broadway are straight, it's official. _(bursts into giggles)_ They live in Hell's Kitchen, actually…!

Review, my pretties! And your little dogs, too!


	5. Out of Sight

**A Man Owned**

I hereby decree that thou shall go forth to thy nearest DVD-renting location and take-eth off the shelf a movie thus called "GATTACA," and therefore rent, watch and adore said title! Then, after considering its perfection in the name of Jude Law, thou shall write a one-shot between Jerome-whose-name-is-now-Eugene (Jude Law) and Vincent-whose-name-is-now-Jerome (Ethan Hawke), and thou shall cease mention of Irene and bask in the glory of Gattaca slash! Henceforth, let it be known to all, Jerome/Jerome is the flavor of the month! May it slash in peace!

(Sorry… xD But seriously, go watch it. It practically _screams_ "This is subtext! We're in love with each other!")

Thank you…  
**ferretgirl-1124**- You're telling _me_ to write more soon? _-hurt-_ What about you? Where are the amazing ferretgirl updates? We're all suffering from lack-of-ferret, ah!  
**Xment2bursX**- It's Garth turn for panic-time... _-evil laughter-_  
**Foxyperv**- Roy was only freaking out about being in a castle because it's a stark contrast from where he was before, a criminal about to be executed. That's all.  
**Dancing through the Storm  
Dunken55**- How interesting, I like my writing style too...! _-cheeky grin-_  
**greetings from lala land**  
**CrestedKid**  
**kill the flamers**  
**Nyleva**

Before we begin, I'd like apologize for the random breaks, now marked by xXx (because my standard line doesn't work, and I refuse to use those massive lines for anything but the beginnings/ends of chapters). This site needs to calm down on the updates, because even though I adore the betaprofiles and DocX, there's only so much change we can take. I'm afraid to see what the administrators are cooking up now…

_(Pon-chan, look for the Breath joke! -grin- And _GFI_ is coming out on April Fools'! And _Isopropyl_'s still dead! And I've been sucked into the horribly-written HouseChase universe, ahh! Lions and tigers and Gottfrieds, oh my!)_

Ah-hem. (xD) On with the show!

* * *

Garth never realized how interesting the castle could look to an outsider, or how magnificent it was to someone who was used to having so little. Even now, trailing Roy down the hall of mirrors, he couldn't understand the ruffian's fixation on every detail. The redhead was asking questions Garth had never thought of, and he had been asking about everything. The constant barrage of questions should have been annoying but, to the prince, Roy was like a child seeing the world for the first time.

The hall of mirrors _was_ astounding—it was Garth's favorite hall in the entire East Wing—and, when Roy's jaw fell open in amazement, it was no big nuisance to spend a few minutes there.

The hall wasn't long or wide, but every wall was mirrored. The ceiling was mirrored as well, though the floor was laid in marble as a courtesy to the women of the castle, to keep others from inadvertently looking up their skirts.

"My parents set many rules for me," Garth murmured; there was no need to shout in the echoing hall. "All of them were based on what I would need in the future, as a member of the royal court, except for one."

Roy met Garth's eyes in one of the mirrors. "What was the exception?"

"To never touch the mirrors," the prince laughed, shaking his head. "My mother didn't especially care, but my father was increasingly fond of this hall… They never had rules about setting furniture on fire or"—he waved a hand toward Roy—"keeping random people in the castle without their knowledge. It was always 'Be tolerant,' or 'Use your power kindly,' and then 'Don't touch the mirrors!'"

Roy turned to Garth, looking amused but suspicious. "Why? Just to keep them clean?"

"I suppose. Are you done here, or would you like more time?"

The redhead took a moment to survey the hallway again and then followed the prince down a connected hall.

Garth stopped without warning, extending his hand to the blank wall. Roy stood a few steps back with one eyebrow raised; but then the prince pressed his fingers into a certain groove and pulled sideways, revealing a sliding door overlaid in stone.

"_Damn_," Roy breathed in appreciation. "Is this a secret passage, princey?"

"Garth," he corrected, gesturing for him to go into the passage first. "And it's not very secretive, except to our infrequent guests. But call it what you will." Garth had slipped in through the door after Roy and closed it, turning to prod the redhead down the slim passage.

"Where does this lead?" Roy asked, his voice wavering in excitement.

"Nowhere special," Garth answered needlessly; by the look on Roy's face, he had realized where they were going. After all, it wasn't hard to notice the aromas that wafted from the kitchen at all hours of the day—even when nothing was being cooked, the kitchen smelled of bread and spices. On a morning such as this, with guests in the castle, the smells were overwhelming.

"Stay here," Garth said quietly as he passed Roy. "What would you like to eat? More pears?"

Roy smirked. "I'll eat anything."

Garth was gone for only a few minutes, but he returned with a good-sized basket hanging from his arm. "Back into the hallway," he directed, leading the way.

As soon as they were moving again, Garth turned to walk backwards, opening the basket. "Fresh from the ovens," he announced, handing Roy a bun drizzled with strawberry sauce.

xXx

Garth pushed open the heavy wooden door of the tailors' wing and goodhearted laughter instantly drowned out everything else.

"Finny!" a woman screeched, the only dismayed voice of the group. "Finny, take off that dress!"

Garth saw Roy hesitate and nearly laughed; he didn't yet know how strange the royal family's tailors were. "Am I interrupting you?" he chuckled, making the three figures stop in their tracks.

"Finny's wearing my dress!" the woman yelled, pointing across the room where the young man in frills stood, bent over with his face contorted in a mockery of seduction. "Your Highness, tell him to take it off!"

"Well, if you want me to take it off, Larky," the man said in falsetto before his voice dropped to become low and sultry, "you just have to say please."

"What in hell," Roy murmured behind Garth. "Princey, is this the crazy room?"

"On the contrary," said a new voice, "they are geniuses." The man who had spoken took brisk steps toward the room's entrance, and as he grew nearer Roy recognized him vaguely as the doctor from the evening before.

"I believe we merit an introduction," the doctor said evenly, nodding courteously to Garth before extending a hand to Roy. The ruffian looked at but didn't take it, and so it dropped to the doctor's side. "My name is Emlyn; I am the overseer of health in this castle, if you will."

"This is Roy," Garth answered when Roy himself failed to.

"You look much better," Emlyn said to the redhead. "Cleaner, as well."

Roy's eyes had already shifted to the two people behind the doctor; Emlyn noticed and smiled, stepping out of the way. "These two are, as I said, geniuses in their field. They are two of the three royal tailors, the head of all clothing here. They can make anyone look perfect."

"There is another banquet tonight," Garth said when Roy looked at him curiously. "And I, as well as my maids, must attend. I will require you go, mostly to keep you from wandering the castle to the point of getting lost. There will be food," Garth added, bringing a certain hungry glint to the redhead's eyes. "But you must look decent."

"To continue," Emlyn interrupted, "these two will be making your clothing for tonight, or any other time as long as you are here." The two tailors came closer, the man slipping the dress off and adjusting his mussed shirt.

"The name is Finian," the man grinned. He tossed the dress to the woman and tried to smother a laugh when it landed on the floor.

"His name is Finny," the woman growled, indignantly scooping up the garment. "And I am Lark."

"Roy," Garth said as means of introduction, since the redhead's mouth was once again staying shut. "Can you work your magic on him, and keep him here until I get back?"

The tailors nodded happily, but Roy turned on the prince sharply. "You're leaving me with _them_?" he hissed in an undertone.

"They aren't going to harm you—"

"You're _leaving_ me?"

Garth stared back at him for a moment and sighed, nodding. "I must attend to another matter. I wish I wouldn't have to; it will be boring and I will return as soon as I can. Just… be obedient, please. They're kind." He held the basket of food out to Roy, but the redhead didn't move. His green eyes burned into Garth even as the prince set the basket on the floor and turned to leave.

xXx

The sweet tobacco smoke had already filled the air of the anteroom by the time Garth entered a few minutes late. He quietly slipped into a chair at the back of the crowd, unnoticed by most of the servants and guests. Fixing the buttons on his left cuff, he idly looked around the room, surprised to see a pair of eyes so blatantly staring at him.

And then Garth realized it was Deverell, seated across the small chamber on a loveseat, his beloved Theodosia sitting limply against him. She was waving a fan at her flushed face, eyes half-closed with tiredness, but he had an arrogant brow raised at the late intrusion as if to say, _Did you oversleep, or was something else keeping you in bed?_

Garth saw Deverell smirk as their eyes caught; he took a breath from his long cigarette and exhaled through his nose, letting the tendrils of smoke wisp away like some regal dragon.

The social gathering seemed more like a business meeting where the prince's parents gave their good wishes to Deverell's parents and discussed things like government and warfare. Garth had never liked sitting in on these gatherings—the room always became stuffy and the conversation was forced—but now, knowing that that ruffian was angry and alone with the tailors, it was impossible to sit still. Deverell's attention never wavered from him, making everything worse.

Finally, after eternity had passed, Garth's uncle and father shook hands with cheery laughs, the first genuine thing they had done. They weren't faking happiness—both were extraordinarily pleased that the meeting was over, even if nothing but cordial pleasantries had been exchanged. The important things—gossip, bribery, threats—had probably been taken care of during the feast yesterday.

Garth was the first out the door, both in eagerness to get to the tailors' wing and in fear that the hungry look in Deverell's eye was meant for him.

xXx

This time, when Garth opened the door to the tailors' wing, he heard something he'd never encountered there before—the sound of absolute silence.

Neither Finian nor Lark were moving; both were sitting at the table to the immediate right of the door, flushed with exercise and staring unhappily into different directions. They had apparently ceased fighting, but had also ceased to work.

Emlyn was standing by the window with much the same expression on his face. His hat was thrown onto the table nearest him and the basket of food Garth had left for Roy was hanging over one arm.

Roy himself was absent.

"Where is he?" Garth asked, making them jump. He felt a sickening drop in his stomach as he surveyed the room twice more, each time hoping that he'd merely missed the redhead.

"Your Highness," Lark began slowly, "We tried—"

"Where is he?" he repeated.

Lark and Finian looked at each other, and then the latter raised a delicate finger toward the hall that led to the storage and fitting rooms. "He ran that way, Your Highness. He wouldn't let us touch him after Emlyn declared the child needed an exam."

Garth turned to the brooding doctor. "Emlyn, what—"

"Your Highness, I declared nothing," he dismissed with the wave of a hand. "I simply commented that his wounds seemed to be healing."

"But now he keeps evading us," Lark pointed out. "And at the current moment, he's hiding somewhere back there."

Garth stared at them for a moment and then shook his head, starting toward the fitting rooms. "I'll find him…"

They were right—Roy _was_ hiding. He had extinguished the torches to make the hallway black as pitch; the prince had to slowly feel his way through the darkness. He barely saw movement before something kicked out his feet, landing him on his back with a knee on his chest. The sound of metal against metal came from very close by and then a pair of scissors was at his throat, spread apart so the blades pressed against both sides of his neck.

"Roy," Garth rasped, the air having been forced out of his lungs. "Roy, get… off me."

"Princey?" The weight was immediately lifted from his chest; a hand grabbed his arm and heaved him to his feet. "Where the hell have you been?"

Garth was still trying to breathe. His fingers ghosted over his neck where the scissors had grazed the skin. He could feel something slick on his fingers. "You… _attacked_ me," he managed, ignoring the question.

"Criminal," Roy reminded him, a finger pointed at his own chest.

"You… You _cut_ me…"

"_Criminal_," he said again. "You should've said something, announced your arrival. Or are you so used to having your entrance proclaimed by servants that you forgot the need to speak?"

Garth simply shoved him back toward the main tailoring room, choosing to ignore that particular comment. But just as they walked into the lit area, the hallway door groaned open and two servants, dressed in Deverell's recognizably-black uniforms, stepped through.

The prince's breath hitched in his throat as he grabbed Roy's arm and stumbled behind stained-glass panels. The panels were impossible to see through—they served as a changing room—but that didn't mean Deverell wouldn't pass by and accidentally glance through an opening in the hinges.

Deverell's voice bid good morning to the tailors and doctor, and at the sound of it Garth's grip tightened painfully on Roy's forearm. The redhead rose a brow, but his smug, distanced expression began to chip away when Garth's gaze flickered fearfully between his green eyes and the glass panels.

"Why…?" Roy asked in a tone barely audible, even to his own ears. "Who _is_ that?"

Deverell was still speaking to the others, but Garth pressed his palm over Roy's mouth. The prince shook his head violently, giving him a look that effectively screamed _Stop making noise!_

"What's all this?" Lark asked beyond the screen.

"Fabric," came Deverell's answer, and Roy felt Garth tremble. "For Garth, it's a gift for him." A slight pause; "Actually, have you seen my dear cousin? I'd like to speak with him."

The color immediately drained from Garth's face; he gasped in a silent breath and sank to the floor, dragging Roy down with him. Still confused, Roy mouthed, _What is it?_ The prince, caught up in staring at the panels, merely shook his head again.

Roy heaved a noiseless, theatric sigh and put one hand to the prince's cheek, turning Garth's face to look at him. _Why are you scared?_ he mouthed this time. Then his eyes caught the line of blood trickling down the side of his neck, the red contrasting against the pale skin, and wiped it away with his thumb. The prince jerked away slightly, but Roy held up his bloodied finger and Garth let out a quiet, "Oh…"

"What was that?"

The redhead could see the white around Garth's eyes as the prince realized he'd spoken aloud.

"What was… what?" Emlyn wondered, perfectly calm.

"That noise." Deverell's boots clicked on the floor as he took a few steps. "Is someone else in here?"

Behind the panels, Garth shifted against the wall, a hand tugging to loosen the collar of his coat. His breath was coming in short gasps, and he was growing louder with each shaky, nervous puff.

"There wasn't a noise, if you ask me." Deverell must not have listened to Finian, because the tailor said again, "I assure you, no one—"

"It sounds like breathing," Deverell murmured. "Shh, just listen…"

Roy set an elbow on Garth's knee, staring up at the prince. _Stop panicking_, Roy mouthed, brow furrowed. Garth sent him a terrified glare and undid another button on his collar, unable to get air even with the top third of his jacket gaping open.

"There's no one here," Finian said again. "Why are you looking for your cousin?"

Deverell moved again, his footsteps coming closer. "I'd like to discuss his future," he said slowly.

Garth put a hand over his own mouth, sliding down the wall until he was lying on the floor, staring up at the painted ceiling. He reached out and grabbed Roy's arm, the fabric of his sleeve bunching up in his fist.

"This is new, isn't it?" Deverell asked, shockingly close. "These folding panels… They're beautiful." The panels wobbled and the pair both looked up to see the outline of a hand on the glass, a black shadow in the middle of the colorful design. "What's behind this?"

The prince abruptly couldn't breathe at all. He felt his chest constricting and shot upright, trying to breathe but trying to do so without a sound. Roy looked on helplessly, and did the only thing that he seemed able to do; he wrapped an arm around Garth's shoulders and brought him closer, his other hand stroking the back of the prince's head. Garth fisted Roy's shirt in his hands and tipped his forehead into the base of his neck, his breathing muffled against Roy's chest. They both became absolutely still as the click of heels against stone moved toward the end of the panels.

"There's nothing back there," Lark answered after a moment, "except a wall. It's a changing room for when we have to make tiny alterations. I think Garth went to His and Her Majesty's rooms, to pick up the rest of your family's gifts. I'm almost sure of it."

Emlyn cut in, "If you're done here, I suggest you go search for him immediately. He'll be hidden away all afternoon in preparation of the banquet, so if you want any chance of speaking to him…"

"Of course, thank you." The footsteps now went away from the panels, and soon enough the door creaked open and clunked shut.

"Your Highness, they're gone," Emlyn called. "You can come out of hiding…"

Garth lifted his head, opened his eyes and seemed shocked by the proximity of the criminal. His breathing had steadied, but now his heartbeat was growing erratic; he shoved away from Roy and picked himself off the floor, leaving the redhead behind the panels of glass.

"There you are," Lark smiled. "And now that you've found your friend, we can start dressing him for… the banquet…" She trailed off, her words useless now that the prince had made a beeline out the door. She turned to Finian instead. "Where is he going?"

Finian shrugged. "Another hiding spot?"

Emlyn came closer to the panels and looked around the edge of the glass, mouth pursed in curiosity. He stared down at Roy, who had leaned back to lie flat against the floor.

"What _are_ you doing?" the doctor wondered. He pulled on his hat and gloves, and then extended a hand to the redhead.

Roy didn't take it; he squinted up at Emlyn through one eye and bit the inside of his lip. "I'm in _pain_," he spat, "so I'm _resting_. Where in hell is princey?"

"_His Highness_ has… fled." Emlyn turned away from him and approached the tailors, who were just getting up from the table. "I must flee as well, it seems, to find him before Her Highness does. If he"—Emlyn jerked his head toward Roy—"can't stand on his own in two minutes, find ice and then find me."

"Emlyn," Finian laughed, "really, be serious. He isn't going to cooperate with us without Garth here."

"I'll bring His Highness at once. And if the imbecile doesn't let you touch him, at least force some licorice-root tea down his throat." Emlyn called to Roy, "Drink the tea. It relieves the pain."

"Of course," Roy groaned, although the doctor's advice was lost to him. His mind was preoccupied, contemplating why his chest felt so bare without the prince pressed against it.

* * *

I'd like to say I know where this is going, but I really don't. (Heh.) I know what's happening in the long run and in the, erm, short run, but how I'll connect the two is up in the air.

You'll find out more about the Garth/Deverell relationship as we go along. And as for Roy? _Well_… this story will progress the Garth-Roy relationship _much_ faster than _Volte-Face_, which is both good and bad. Good, because it's romantic. Bad, because it means the story will also be shorter and simpler than _V-F_ (or as simple as I'll ever make it, at least). But don't worry, no ends are coming yet!

Things soon-to-come include cherry sauce troubles (which may or may not be an innuendo), Deverell being naughty (and Roy noticing it), Garth angst-wandering, the tailors' opinions of the prince and maybe a bathtime scrubdown, if I can fit it in. (Yes, I really _did_ just say "bathtime scrubdown"…)

The next update on this will actually be in April, along with the handful of other things I'm updating as part of my lovely Aprilpalooza thing. Why am I going all-out on the eleventh? Why, dearies, it's my birthday, and so I'm slapping up a bunch of new stuff! (If you want the full list, it's under the Updates section of my profile.) This'll include the first chapter of yet another SpAqua story, _Cold Feet, Cold Fish_, which will probably be less than ten chapters, as well as some _V-F_.

I'll stop blabbering now. (I'm on spring break with no one to talk to, forgive me…)

Da mihi tuam opinionem! _-crazy eyes-_


	6. Parted

**A Man Owned**

Part two of Carnipalooza. Part three (Volte-Face) may either be up tonight or tomorrow, and parts four, five and six will follow (but they're in different fandoms). Everything will be posted by Sunday evening, because it's Carnipalooza weekend!

And today is my birthday, if no one understands the celebration…

* * *

The quiet corner apothecary was dimly-lit and empty when the prince first stepped inside, the bell tied to the doorknob offering a cheery clang to him. He closed the door gently and took careful strides toward the counter, as if not to disturb the odd collection of jars and plants. Pots of flowers lined the shelves, each flower's buds watching him like a hundred tiny eyes.

"Joseph?" Garth called, knocking on the wood of the counter. "Are you—"

"Your Highness," the man called from the back room, quickly appearing in the doorway. "Yes, yes, I'm here. Did you need something?"

"I need something for wounds, or…" He waved a hand to find the word, "Cuts… Scrapes… Pain, I suppose?"

Joseph's expression turned curious. "_You_ are wounded?"

Hastily, the prince shook his head. "Of course not."

"Who is, if I may ask?"

"A man…" Garth trailed off, realizing that that was all he honestly knew about Roy. He didn't know his family history, where he lived as a boy or how he began his life as a criminal. He could tell Joseph that Roy liked pears, or that he had astonishingly green eyes and slept deeply enough for someone to curl up against him, but aside from that…

"Your Highness?"

Garth shook his head to clear it. "A man temporarily under my… guardianship sustained a fair amount of abuse in his… his _travels_, and as it is I wonder how he stands upright. With the banquet tonight, I would prefer him to be well, or at least able to walk."

The man nodded, already rifling through jars and drawers. "Are the wounds deep?" When Garth, still contemplating, didn't answer, he clarified, "Were they _bleeding_, Your Highness?"

"Bleeding? Yes, but not much." Standing idle, he began to uncork the tiny bottles that sat neatly on the countertop. "There are so many of them…"

Joseph nodded. "Yes, they're mixtures for emergency situations, and must be ready at a moment's notice. Be careful of the one on the end, in the purple bottle."

The prince squinted for a moment in confusion, and then laughed. "No, not bottles, many _wounds_." He leaned away from a particularly pungent bottle and replaced the cork. "My acquaintance has many _wounds_."

Joseph made a small hum of acknowledgement and set a mortar and pestle on the counter. Dumping in a fine amount of tablets and seeds, he asked, "May I inquire as to what type of wounds?"

Garth shifted, unsure. "I…" He tilted his head, watching everything within the stone bowl turn into powder. "I myself am not certain, I'm afraid." And that was true. He didn't even know which marks were scars or new wounds, and those bruises could be from any blunt object.

The door abruptly groaned open and Emlyn swept in, immediately removing his hat and nodding to Garth. "Your Highness," he said, smiling. "I'm happy to see your concern for the boy, though I believe your time would be better spent by his side, helping Lark and Finian control him."

Joseph looked up briefly, but if he was surprised, he hid it well. "Your Highness, I can send the mixture back with Emlyn if you feel inclined to depart, since—"

"_No_," the prince said firmly. Between leaving the ruffian and entering the apothecary, all fear of Deverell had faded into quiet contentment, but at the mention of seeing Roy again a new feeling crept across his skin. It felt very alike to fear, but he couldn't be afraid of Roy—rather, he was apprehensive to see the redhead again, so soon after practically running from him.

Some infinitesimal detail of their relationship, if one could even _call_ it a relationship, had morphed while they were behind those glass panels. Perhaps it was how close they had been, or how he had relied on Roy and trusted him, but _something_ had changed. Something tiny but drastic was different, and Garth didn't know what it was… and that scared him, he realized. Nothing in his life had ever been unplanned, and now that someone had arrived whose actions could not be predicted…

"No?" Emlyn wondered, breaking the prince from his thoughts. "Your Highness, I feel it best that you—"

"No," Garth repeated, stepping toward the door. "You're correct, I am needed elsewhere. But not by him—I have other duties, other affairs to which I must attend." He opened the door and said over his shoulder, "Give him the medicine and I'll speak with him at the banquet."

xXx

"Put it between your legs, right at the junction—yes, exactly—and now, run it down the inside of your thigh, all the way to your ankle."

Roy did as told, muscles aching from simply holding the measuring tape in place. "Four marks, eight dashes," he said, throwing a dubious look to the tailor.

Finian turned toward Lark's position across the room and called, "Four-eight inseams." Returning his gaze to the ruffian, he sat on the nearby stool and gestured for him to return to the chaise.

Roy stumbled a few feet to the side, plopping himself without grace onto the cushioned chair. He poured himself more tea and drank it in gulps, wincing when the hot water burned the side of his mouth. But it was worth it; after a few seconds, a numb feeling washed his body in warmth.

"While you're sitting, lad, would you mind measuring your hands?"

Roy threw out another look of irritation but reached for the tape regardless, pressing it against his hand. "Four and one half dashes across," he sighed, "thumb is three, finger one is three and one half, middle finger is four, fourth finger is the same as the first finger, little finger is three."

"My dears," a new voice came through the door, "His Highness wishes to finish his other duties before attending to his acquaintance."

"Doctor?" Lark asked, distracted.

Finian pointed to Roy; "How high is your palm, and how thick? And what do you mean, Emlyn?" he added.

"I mean that His Highness will leave the boy with us—"

"Six and one half high, one and one half thick," Roy listed.

"—until the banquet. He feels that he has more important matters at the moment." Emlyn shook his head and removed his hat when Finian opened his mouth again. "He doesn't truly _have_ more important matters, he merely refuses to come back. Such a mystery," he smiled, casting a furtive glance at Roy.

"Such a mystery," Lark repeated, still working at the side table. "Well, we have every one of the lad's measurements. I suppose you should accompany him to the—"

"I don't need _accompaniment_," Roy spat darkly, the first original thing he'd said in minutes. He lifted a packet of dry herbs from the tea tray and managed to stand, making his way stiffly toward the hall door. As he passed Emlyn, the doctor extended a violet pouch of herbs and a case of bottles.

"Take these," Emlyn said. "Have His Highness prepare them for you."

Roy murmured something incoherent and snatched the remedies, limping out the door.

It wasn't until he got to the third intersection of hallways that Roy knew he was lost. Surprisingly, neither the tailors nor Emlyn had followed him, but now he almost wished they had. His chest was aching and his legs felt weak, as if they would give out soon.

And then he heard a quiet footstep and a meek yelp of surprise, accompanied by the sound of a heavy basket falling to the stone floor.

Roy turned, surprised to find the shy maid of Garth's, the reserved brunette, blushing a brilliant red and staring up at him in alarm.

"I-I'm very sorry," she murmured, head lowered as she scrambled to pick up the basket and its contents, which had spilled over the floor. She had been carrying a basket of dark clothes that looked bulky and heavy. "I must apologize, I was simply oblivious to your presence, I thought—"

She abruptly looked up, her eyes wide with panic, and after meeting his eyes she couldn't speak. She tripped and caught herself on the basket, dropping several things inadvertently. Reaching to grab them, she jerked back when his hand reached them first and dumped them neatly into the basket.

As soon as she had righted herself, she looked at the floor and murmured, "Thank you," before attempting to pick up the basket. But once again his hands found it first, and the basket scraped across the floor, away from her.

"Oh—" she gasped, taking a step back. Hands clasped across her stomach, she dared to meet his eyes.

"Quin... Quintonice?" he asked; she looked lost for a moment, not expecting him to remember her. "That _was_ your name…?"

She nodded awkwardly. "Y-yes…"

"I'm lost," he continued, tone even. "Do _you_ know where I'm supposed to be?"

"O-oh," she said again, hefting the basket into her arms again. "Of course, right this way. I'm sorry, I never inquired your name. May I ask…?"

"Roy," he said, after a pause. His suspicious eyes traced her every movement, and he spoke slowly.

"Lord Roy, then. I must—"

"I'm not a Lord…" His tone carried only a trace of spite. "Simply 'Roy' would be fine. Do you know where princey is?"

Quintonice let out a tiny laugh, but quickly bit it back and looked up at him in fear. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have found that amusing—I'm being disrespectful to you, and to His Highness! I must also apologize for failing to notice you before I dropped everything, and for making you assist to pick up these clothes when clearly you are in pain, as well as—"

He held up a hand to stop her babbling. "What do _you_ call him?"

She thought for a moment. "I call him 'Your Highness,' of course. We all must call him that. As his maid, I should be kept from speaking directly to him, but apparently he's different from the rest of the royal family and allows us to be personal… or, more personal, I suppose, than other maids." Her wide, hazel eyes took in Roy, a faint smile in them. "He seems amused by _you_, though."

Roy furrowed his brow. "Amused?"

"He's comfortable when he laughs with you," she smiled, looking ahead as they walked. "He's usually very restrained, very kind. But when he laughed with you, it was…" She left off, thinking. "It seemed natural for him," she decided. "Instead of a prince and an acquaintance, he was simply a boy with a good friend."

"We hardly know one another," Roy said, as if it made her reasoning specious.

"And yet, that makes it even more interesting… Why would he enjoy his time with you so much, even if he doesn't know you?"

Roy opened his mouth to reply, but she stopped moving and gestured toward a familiar door. "This is His Highness's chambers. I expect someone will come fetch you within the hour, for apparently Emlyn has set up a barber for you this afternoon."

He nodded, reaching for the door when she spoke again. "Will you be accompanying His Highness to the ball?" she asked, face toward the floor again.

"The _ball_?" He tipped his head to one side; "Not a banquet?"

"No, there will be a proper _ball_ tonight, not an informal banquet. Surely you've attended such things at your own castle…?"

Roy pursed his lips to keep back an ironic smirk, but nodded. "I suppose I'll see you this evening, then."

Her face seemed to show relief, and she smiled as she replied. "This evening, yes…"

* * *

This chapter could either be this length (2000 words) or more than double this (4200), so I decided to cut it short and save the rest of it for the next chapter. (That means you can expect chapter seven very soon, but that also means not much happened…)


	7. The Cowardly Prince

**A Man Owned**

I just realized I didn't thank anyone last chapter! Thank you to everyone who reviewed for both chapter five _and_ six, and I'm sorry that I didn't thank you before, and that I'm not listing you now… But I'll do thank-yous next chapter, most certainly!

Thank you…  
**_EVERYONE!_**

Wow, we're on chapter seven already…? _-whoa-_

(Xment2bursX, I know you PM'd me, and I was meaning to reply… but then I didn't, I don't know why. So thank you as well… (I'm just all thanky today…))

I was supposed to get _Volte-Face_ up today, but… but… but _this_ has a bathtub scene! So just read it! _-grin-_

* * *

Deverell barely noticed when Theodosia flounced onto the couch beside him, kissing his cheek and handing him a glass of wine. "Have you heard about the Viscountess?" she giggled, taking a sip from her own glass. "In a few months, she and the Viscount will have their own little child—but there have been rumors, oh, _rumors_! She's been visiting with the Earl since her husband is off visiting courts, and apparently the Countess is getting skeptical of her husband and that woman fluttering about together in broad daylight, when she herself wishes to become pregnant!"

She swatted her fiancé's shoulder, taking another sip of wine. "I personally think the Viscountess is going to have the _Earl's_ child," she whispered conspiratorially. "If he's leaving the Countess at home so much—with good reason, she's so _horrible_ to look at!—I wouldn't be surprised if the baby looks _nothing_ like the _Viscount_!"

Deverell looked at her when she hit him again. "Are you listening?" she asked, leaning toward him. "You'll see the Viscount at the ball tonight, and I'm sure that little _tart_ will be at his side, looking perfectly innocent in her baby-frock." She waved a hand, giggling again. "But if the Earl shows his face, I wouldn't be surprised if they both _disappear_ from the ballroom at the same time…"

"Fascinating," Deverell hummed, swirling the wine in the glass. "I'll be sure to avoid that area of conversation with them, then."

Theodosia stared at him for a moment before she dropped her eyes and sighed, shaking her head. "Are you still distracted by your cousin? Weren't you creating some grand scheme for his humiliation?"

"Not _quite_ a 'scheme,' Dosi," he murmured, finally drinking from his glass. "And I believe it's working, but it takes time to fester." He met her eyes and changed the topic. "I see you're feeling better. That's excellent."

"Sleep and wine," she giggled, "the _ultimate_ remedy. But now I must dress for the festivities tonight, and I cannot even spend a moment with you." She frowned, pouting her lips out. "It's _so_ sad…"

He smiled and gave her a look, and instantly she broke into more giggles. "You'll spend _hours_ with me at the ball," Deverell said.

"Not if you're chasing after your cousin again," she pouted again, this time slightly more genuine. "Sometimes it's as if you're in love with _him_, instead of _me_—"

"You're ridiculous," Deverell chuckled, gently prodding her off the couch. "Go get dressed."

A moment later, Theodosia had left the room and a man in black clothes entered.

"Keir," Deverell said at once. "What news?"

"No news, I'm afraid." Keir closed the door behind him, looking around the room to see if anyone else was present. "How go your plans?"

Deverell lit a long cigarette and put it to his lips, inhaling and exhaling before he spoke. "I haven't spoken to my cousin since yesterday, though I expect to see him this evening." He smirked, sharp eyes turning to gaze out onto the veranda. "I also expect to have a few drinks with him…"

"A sabotage?" Keir laughed, eyes flashing. "A few drinks could lead—"

"But a few drinks won't even occur," Deverell said, rising from the couch, "unless he knows they aren't from me."

"But they _are_ from you, yes?"

He nodded, turning toward Keir and holding up his glass of wine. He drank the rest of the glass in a few swallows, grinning in satisfaction when he had finished. "Theodosia," he said quietly.

"My Lord…?"

"Theodosia," he repeated. "She's a talkative woman, and she hasn't even met my cousin yet. No doubt she'll want to speak with him, and Dosi has this way of giving people alcohol and making them drink it, without even meaning to."

Keir slowly returned his beaming smirk and began to nod. "You're right, it's _perfect_. But what if, after he's completely washed in spirits, he—"

"I don't care about what happens _after_ he's drunk," Deverell interrupted, causing a shadow of confusion to fall across his assistant's face. "We'll be here more than just one night, Keir. Why ruin our fun right away when we can toy a while with dear Garth instead?"

Keir began to smile again in clear agreement. "You'll… put something in his drink, then?"

Deverell feigned shock, his hand over his heart. "Why, Keir, he's my _cousin_! Why would I _ever_ consider putting something in his _drink_? That's simply _unacceptable_!"

He laughed again, and then gestured toward the cabinet of alcohol. "Pour us both a glass of champagne. This evening merits a celebration…"

Keir's eyes sparked, full of fighting venom, and he hurried to get glasses with a malicious leer.

xXx

That damned ruffian was still on Garth's mind, even as the prince sank into the hot water of his bath. His mother had insisted he be particularly well-groomed, as it was imperative that he make a good impression on every single soul coming to the banquet.

Garth closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the side of the tub, his fingers lazily lathering soap through his hair. After riding all morning, the steaming water was a welcome warmth to his aching thighs. One hand rubbed out a tight muscle before returning back to his head, but by then a foreign hand had taken its place.

"Jette?" Garth asked, opening his eyes in surprise. But instead of the dark, rounded features of his maid, red hair and green eyes highlighted Roy's face above the prince. "Roy?" Garth asked, twisting away from him, shifting toward the opposite end of the tub. "Wh… what are you…?"

"I was washing your hair," the redhead smirked, stepping into the tub. "And now I'm joining you for a bath."

Garth turned his head away, one hand shadowing his eyes as the ruffian unwrapped the towel from his waist. "You couldn't wait for me to finish?"

"Well, we don't have that kind of time," Roy laughed tersely, splashing the prince once he was seated in the tub. "And it's not like I'm a woman."

"True, but…" Garth angled his head to one side. "Is something wrong?"

Roy shook his head, biting the inside of his lip to keep back a gasp. His cuts were burning again, and every time he moved the slightest bit, it felt as if his skin was tearing in two. "Hurts," he managed to mutter.

"Maybe a bath wasn't necessary for _you_," the prince sighed. "Did Lark cut your hair?"

Roy ran a hand through his hair and nodded. "She practically cut it all off, damned tailor. Didn't that doctor say a barber would cut it?"

"It looks good, even if you don't like it. And she gave you a shave, too, I see." Garth's foot brushed the underside of Roy's thigh and he jerked it back, clearing his throat when the redhead raised a brow. "Couldn't you bathe later?"

"Couldn't you simply get out?"

They stared at each other, Roy with a pained smirk across his lips—they both knew exactly why Garth couldn't get out. The prince may have averted his gaze when Roy stepped into the bath, but Roy would do no such favor in return. If Garth were to get out…

"So, what important affair did you take care of after you deserted me?" the redhead asked eventually, flicking froth at Garth. "And why do you have such a massive bathtub?"

"It was a gift," the prince said easily, preferring the second inquiry to the first. "From my cousin."

"The one you hate?"

"I do _not_ hate him," Garth argued, though his tone of voice said otherwise. "I hate no one."

Roy threw him a doubtful glance. "Of course you don't."

"It's true," he said firmly. "And besides, he—well, his mother, really—brought this for me when we were much younger, before I was even ten years old." The violet in his eyes seemed to brighten in reminiscence, a smile coming across his expression. "He had a claw-footed tub exactly like this in his own castle, and we would play games in it all the time. We would pretend to be in a ship, like the ones on the sea beside their estate." He laughed. "He would always be the captain of the ship, and eventually we would fill it up with water and have to empty it before we capsized."

"Capsized?"

"Well, we _were_ pretending," Garth chuckled. "But to empty our 'ship,' we would get the water everywhere. It was horrible for the servants to dry up, I'm sure."

Now Roy was smiling in amusement, a subtle curve of his lips. "So now you have your own ship?"

"That was his purpose, I suppose…"

If Garth had any intention of sitting in silence after letting his story trail off, he apparently hadn't expected Roy to remember his first inquiry. But the redhead remembered it clearly, and quickly asked, "And this morning, after you ran away?"

"I did _not_ run away," the prince sniffed.

"You ran away," Roy repeated. "It was _very_ princely of you. But what did you do?"

"I… I went to the apothecary," Garth said tentatively. "I presume Emlyn gave the mixtures to you…?"

"He did. What else did you do?" When the prince didn't answer, Roy laughed. "I _told_ you, you ran away. And were you just biding your time, trying not to see me? Were y—"

"What did _you_ do while I was away?" Garth interrupted quickly. "Did Lark or Finian decide how to dress you?"

"Obviously; they let me leave, didn't they? And I met your maid, Quintonice. I think I made an impression."

The prince's head jerked up, but he wasn't sure whether to laugh or chastise. "An impression?"

Roy shifted in the tub, grimacing at his wounds again. "I scared her. But then she helped me find these rooms—which are impossible to find otherwise—and told me that the _banquet_ is actually a _ball_."

He propped an elbow on the edge of the tub and watched the dark-haired boy's expression fall into a look of dismay. "You _must_ be joking!" Garth hissed in quiet exclamation. "A _ball_?"

"With dancing."

"By the Gods…" He groaned and slumped out of his regal posture, massaging the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He was silent for only a moment, but it was too long of a pause for the redhead's liking and so he decided to create a distraction.

"Is this your foot?" Roy asked suddenly, hands grabbing the prince's ankle and pulling it above the water.

"No, actually," Garth snapped. He yanked his foot away and glowered, one eyebrow quirked. "It's my mother's, she's in here too."

"Curious," he laughed, inching toward the prince. His hands below the water skimmed a knee and then came to rest on a thigh, and Garth let out a yelp and pressed himself against the wall of the tub. "Is this your mother's, as well?" Roy murmured, leaning forward.

"Stop," the prince ordered, face burning. "Just—_stop!_" he gasped again, when Roy moved even closer.

Tan fingers trailed the outside of Garth's thigh, pausing at his hip. Roy's eyes bore holes through Garth, gauging each movement and reaction. His eyes wrinkled at the edges in a smile when he ran the rough edge of his thumb against the prince's hipbone and the dark-haired royal only made a meek noise of protest.

"Princey," Roy whispered, running his palm up the side of Garth's stomach. "If this is still your mother's, I think I might like her…"

The prince tried to shrink farther away, to no avail. He could only hope that his pounding heartbeat wasn't as audible as it seemed. "And since it is _not_ my mother's?"

"Well," Roy considered, ending the contact with the prince and moving back to his end of the tub, "I suppose…" He leveled his gaze with Garth's. "I suppose I might like whoever it belongs to."

The prince couldn't look away from the green visage, even as it smoldered into him. He was relieved that Roy had put distance between them again, though some part of him _wanted_ the propinquity the ruffian had established. And now, more than before, Garth was uncertain of what was happening—because once again, with Roy's handprint on his skin, things were changing. The ambiguity of this undefined _thing_ was only managing to become hazier with time.

"You want to know what I was doing today?" the prince asked abruptly, his voice near-inaudible. He picked up two towels from the stool and threw one at Roy, blinding him long enough to stand and cover himself with the second. Stepping out of the tub, he refused to meet the gaze he knew was still staring. "Truthfully, I spent the morning on my horse, riding in the forest behind the menagerie and"—he took a fleeting look Roy—"attempting to keep away from you."

Roy nodded, concealing an unrecognizable emotion with a mask of smugness. "You ran away," he said, and averted his eyes.

The prince didn't reply at first; he gathered his clothes in his arms and, almost as an afterthought, stopped in the doorway. "I—"

"You ran away once," Roy chuckled, back to staring at the royal again, "and now you're running again." Garth opened his mouth to argue, but Roy simply said, "Don't talk, _run_. You're better at running anyway, princey."

For a moment, Garth looked visibly stunned and upset, but just as quickly, he pulled his emotions back and replaced them with an arrogant, princely countenance before stalking out the door.

It was only after he was gone that Roy slammed a hand into the bathwater, glared after him and whispered, "_Craven_."

* * *

For your information, I now have a Livejournal account on which I will post snippets of future chapters, for anyone who wants to check it out. (A few _V-F_ scenes are already up, as it is.) It's under "Homepage" at the top of my profile here…

_-fwa-_

Review?


	8. Preparations

**A Man Owned**

Thank you…  
**Xment2bursx**- If my reviews are fun for you, yours are doubly as fun for me, 'cause you always catch everything I put between the lines... (It's actually kind-of spooky.) I love the "yay, molesting!" thing, by the way-- it's the theme of all SpAqua stories, I'm convinced... (I couldn't write the bathtub scene without grinning and breaking out in giggles every three seconds, so I'm glad it went over well. xD) And I'm aware that you have a new chapter up (and I promise to review it tomorrow) but I've just been annoyingly busytastic as of late... And this has nothing to do with anything, but the picture of Sasuke on your icony-thing makes me melt into a puddle of Sasu-love...  
**Dancing through the Storm  
KF fan**- Of course Roy will protect Garth from Deverell... or _will_ he? _-evil grin-_  
**Yourperfectdisaster  
FREAKSHOW1**- Hygeine was definitely the first thing on my mind when I was writing it. xD  
**Foxyperv**- Deverell's motives are meant to be unclear at this point in time, so just go with the flow. (Actually, they'll be unclear for a while, but you'll see his plan in action in chapter 9.)  
**KrisSk8Gurl**  
**Irish Whirlwind  
Rave-Widow  
Kyo-kun AND Hatsuharu are hot**- Welcome aboard! And, um, I just really like your screenname. xD

* * *

Garth ate a very late lunch at the edge of the ballroom, throwing angry glares at every piece of decorum the servants put up. By the time he was even halfway through his meal, the stair rails were all wrapped in flowered, leafy garland and, except for in the middle of the ballroom, candles were places everywhere. Carpets were rolled out and embroidered napkins were placed on specific tables, showing which seats were reserved for whom.

"Needless festivities," he murmured under his breath, mentally cursing the gods. Now banners were being draped from the ceiling in flowing, deep violet arcs, at which the prince pointedly scoffed.

This ball really was utterly pointless. Not only was it celebrating the arrival of his most detested cousin, it required more dancing, talking and chivalry than a simple banquet would need. Instead of retiring after an hour, he would be expected to stay at least until midnight and act gentlemanly and regal the entire time.

It was sure to be a disaster.

"Your Highness," the head maid, Zetta, called, shuffling over with half a scowl on her face. "Would it be possible to eat elsewhere, or perhaps prepare for the ball? You're frightening everyone to the point that they're afraid to do anything."

Garth tried to make his expression lighter, but the gloom still weighed it down. "I apologize," he murmured, dipping his head. "I can leave now, it's no trouble."

"It would be appreciated," Zetta sighed, about to shuffle back to work when she paused. "I heard you have some sort of acquaintance staying with you. Should I have the back room prepared for him?"

Garth chuckled humorlessly. "Yes, thank you. That would be preferable. But please, keep the knowledge from reaching my parents, if you can…"

She nodded and trotted off, abandoning him for a torn banner. Her voice followed him out of the ballroom, echoing down the nearby corridors.

With a glance to the lengthening shadows in the courtyard, Garth knew that he could no longer avoid getting ready. His parents were expecting him to be handsome, dressed and ready to receive guests in less than an hour. And as he opened the doors to his bedroom, he saw that his maids had expected him to be earlier, based on their state of disorganized panic.

"Your Highness," Novia whined, immediately taking his coat, "you're very late. You should have—"

"Oh, stop talking," Isolde snapped at her. "If you start chastising His Highness, he'll never be ready in time."

"Did Lark deliver my attire?" he wondered, directing his attention to Quintonice.

She nodded, pointing behind her at the clothing sprawled across the bed. "And," she said quietly, "she took Sir Roy to have a final fitting. I hope you're not angry with him for leaving, but since he is accompanying you to the ball I thought it best he be prepared."

The prince looked confused for a moment, but then remembered what Roy had said. "I forgot you spoke to him." As an afterthought, he asked, "What did you think of him now that he's not in tatters, bleeding on my foyer floor?"

Quintonice opened her mouth, but was bodily pushed aside by a determined Isolde. "Your Highness, please change your clothes. Coulson will be here faster than you think—"

"Isolde," Garth said gently, "please take Jette and Novia with you to Zetta. I can dress myself, and surely she has more urgent matters than how to properly tie my shoes."

The maid curtsied and left, flanked by the two others. Quintonice, slightly shocked by the abrupt emptiness of the room, only stared at him.

"What did you think of Roy, again?" he asked, making his way toward the clothes. He scooped up the armful and brought them behind a curtain, beginning to change out of sight.

"He seems goodhearted and cheerful… though, I may have insulted him, I'm afraid."

Garth laughed. "How did you manage that?"

"Well," she started, voice hesitant, "I was merely expressing how amicably he and Your Highness get along with each other, and he seemed… surprised."

The prince tugged on the black shirt and pants, and draped the heavy white coat over one arm. "Does it seem as if we get along, really?"

He stepped out from behind the curtain and handed the coat to Quintonice, allowing her to help put it on. As she straightened various pieces of clothing and picked off loose strands, Garth looked at her and tried to imagine an insulted Roy. He didn't seem the type to be insulted, at least not over anything less than running away from bathtubs, and would probably only laugh at something so trivial as camaraderie.

That was what Roy was doing, Garth realized. Roy was _laughing_ at him—he was teasing Garth, making him flush and react to ridiculous sentiments, all for his own amusement. The haze of the affiliation wasn't haze at all, only acerbic pleasure on Roy's part construed as… _feelings_ toward Garth. That was it; there was no hidden meaning to Roy's taunts, only ridicule for the sake of ridicule.

Suddenly, the prince felt his face go red with anger. He felt warm, too warm, and he only wanted to find Roy, berate him and force him out of the castle.

"Your Highness?" Quintonice asked when he spun away from her, fists clenched. "Your Highness, is something wrong?"

His head jerked up. "Of course n—"

"Your Highness!" two women chorused, sweeping in through the door with boxes of makeup and jewelry. "You mustn't spend time having conversations, especially with maids! Sit, sit—_sit_, Your Highness!" The taller of the women pushed him into a chair as the other kept talking. "Keep still, unless you want your face to look ridiculous."

Garth sighed and obeyed, sharing a sympathetic look with Quintonice before she left to attend other duties.

A few minutes later, while the makeup women were still applying things to his face and bickering over which ribbon color looked best with his attire, the Queen appeared in the doorway. She was already dressed, with her hair in a mass of black curls, and the sheer regality of her presence made the women stop in admiration before they gave a quick curtsy and continued with their argument.

"Garth, why are you still getting ready? As of ten minutes ago, you should have been at the top of the staircase, preparing a speech for Deverell!"

"I was preoccupied, mother," was his half-hearted reply. "And I refuse to give a toast to Deverell, that haughty prig of a cousin."

The Queen smiled with false sweetness. "That's lovely, Garth, but your refusal means nothing to me, because you _are_ making that toast to him. Whether or not you mean it is a completely other matter—that's the quintessential behavior of royalty, to say something kind when you would rather have the person executed."

Garth laughed, making the Queen laugh as well. He asked, "Isn't that what the rest of society does, lie to others? Aren't we above that?"

"Of course not. The ones who make the laws are the worst at upholding them," she said with a casual shrug, turning to go. "Be at the top of the stairs before the bell tolls."

xXx

Roy, standing at the window of the tailors' room, was watching the carriages file into the enormous courtyard, observing the mannerisms of the guests, chuckling whenever the women's dresses got caught on their carriage doors. He had already gotten dressed in the ludicrously-elegant pants and jacket the tailors had made for him, both black, and now Lark and Finian were merely scurrying about, trying to find matching gloves.

The jacket was sleeveless, with a collar and asymmetric buttons on flaps that folded over one another. The line of tiny black buttons started high on the right of his chest, running until they were almost at the middle of his waist when a short strap of fabric interrupted them, held on with buttons at each end. Below the strap, the jacket cascaded out in a smooth curve, ending at his knees in the back but falling to two symmetric points in the front. The jacket opened in the front below his waist to show the pants, and everything was black—which was why Roy couldn't understand the need to find matching gloves. Anything that was black would match, and gloves weren't imperative accessories anyway.

Finally, Lark appeared beside him with black gloves that ended at his wrist. She practically shoved them over his fingers before racing off the fetch something else—a matching handkerchief, this time.

Finian, clipping off a rogue piece of hair at the nape of Roy's neck, noticed the earrings and made a sound of revulsion. "You _must_ remove these," he murmured, reaching to take out the tiny golden hoops.

But Roy twisted away, bringing a hand to his ear. "No, these stay."

"Earrings are for women or servants, _never_ true men. Take them out."

"I _like_ them," he argued. Eyes glowing a brighter green, he said smugly, "And besides, princey _told_ me to wear them."

Finian's eyes narrowed curiously. "Why would he—"

"You shouldn't call His Highness 'princey,'" Lark muttered, reappearing with an artistically-folded handkerchief. She tucked it into the pocket on the left of his chest, just over his heart, and stepped back to admire her work. "Aside from your manner of speaking, you seem like you belong at this castle."

From somewhere outside, a heavy bell chimed, making the tailors look at each other. Lark grabbed Roy by the arm and hauled him toward the door, Finian trailing behind.

Roy's wounds ached too much for him to resist. "What's—"

"You're late!" Finian hissed.

Without a word, Roy was escorted down the halls, turning at obscure cross-sections and occasionally going up staircases, only to end up in an empty room. Vaguely, music could be heard from the room below, a quick and festive waltz.

"Go down these stairs and knock on the door to your left," Finian said quickly. "Then keep going down the stairs until you enter the ballroom."

"Why am I knocking on the—"

"Try to act inconspicuous, or else His Highness might get into trouble." Lark pushed him toward the staircase without giving him a chance to speak. "Go!" she hissed, and then they were both out the door again.

Roy looked down the staircase with a sigh. He found the door on the left easily, knocked, and to his surprise the hazel-eyed maid appeared, looking appropriately-dressed in an embellished black and white gown.

"Quintonice?" he asked when she took his arm.

"Emlyn told me to accompany you this evening, so you wouldn't get lost." She smiled nervously. "Is that all right?"

Roy thought for a moment. "Isn't princey going to be there?"

"Oh—" Her smile disappeared, and she let go of him. "I knew you'd be upset—it was my mistake, I apologize—"

"I'm not upset," Roy chuckled, and the noise eased her alarm. "But isn't he going to be there?"

"Yes, but he'll be tending to his guests and avoiding Deverell. And the Queen, Her Highness, may keep him from associating with anyone she doesn't know… including you and me, unfortunately. Of course, I'm his servant—I shouldn't be attending balls at all!" She let out a delicate sigh and waved a hand, brushing off the matter. "I'm sure he'll be keeping an eye on you from far away, though… If he can recognize you, that is."

Roy took her arm and started down the stairs. "Recognize me?"

"You look entirely transformed, if you don't mind me saying so, in those clothes." She laughed, a light sound that echoed in the stone stairwell. "That's why the three tailors were hired, and are praised as geniuses—they're _excellent_."

"So I've heard," Roy said, looking over the railing to see how far the stairs went. "But I've only met two of them, and they were both mad."

Quintonice giggled again, shaking her head. "Regardless, you look very handsome."

He hummed in response, letting silence slip easily between them. Soon enough, music and voices filled the air, and the staircase ended in an open room with heavy doors on the opposite wall.

"In there," Quintonice directed, gesturing toward the doors. "That's the ballroom." She started to move, but noticed Roy had stopped and quickly turned to face him.

"I think I should stay out here…" he murmured, staring up at the doors.

Her expression crumbled with uncertainty, her mood once again swayed with a mere sentence. "But… Emlyn instructed me to bring you." She tilted her head to one side, brown curls falling across her face. "And His Highness would like you there, I'm sure."

"I'm not so sure about that." He gave half a laugh and shrugged. "We… had an argument."

"His Highness isn't easily displeased—and it's likely you won't even come face-to-face with him. So, please, may we go in?"

Roy looked between Quintonice and the doors, and eventually offered his arm to the brunette with an unenthusiastic smile.

* * *

Reviews are better than cancelled biology tests...


End file.
